


the roses of borland

by beamkatanachronicles



Category: The Left Hand of Darkness - Ursula K. Le Guin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fix-It, Other, TLHOD Secret Santa 2019, spacefuture Portland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21944632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beamkatanachronicles/pseuds/beamkatanachronicles
Summary: "For years, people the whole world over sent their most unique, beautiful roses to the garden. And so, dozens of conflicts and a handful of natural disasters later, rows and rows of thousands of those flowers remain, forever protected in Borland.”Estraven’s hands rest in place, holding Genly’s, until they begin again, tentative. “Even one hundred years along.”Genly barely hesitates. “Even if the rest of Borland were somehow torn out and built anew within this last century, I would bet my life that those roses would still be there.”
Relationships: Genly Ai/Therem Harth rem ir Estraven
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	the roses of borland

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anjael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anjael/gifts).



> Written for the 2019 TLHOD Secret Santa. Happy holidays! ❤

Outside, a snowstorm howls: the third night this week. 

Their tent, sturdy as ever, is all that separates Genly and Estraven from the elements, but the walls quiver dangerously-- buffeted by the harsh winds, as if they, too, are shivering in the unforgiving cold of the Gobrin Ice. But the relative safety of the chabe stove radiates heat, basking both of them in a comfortable bubble of its now familiar glow. 

“Genry, where on Terra were you born, again? I’ve forgotten the town’s name.” As usual, Estraven is already twice as hot as they’d like. They peel off their snow-soaked clothing as they speak, the shadow of their short, dense frame bathed in dull, red-orange light. 

“Buh--” Genly, who’d been staring, blinks quickly and turns back to the chabe stove. Estraven very pointedly pretends not to notice and continues to undress. (The two straddle this thin line of tension so frequently, even outside of Estraven’s kemmer, that they’ve both gotten rather good at dragging themselves back from it.) He flexes his fingers open and closed again in the warmth. “Borland.”

"Borr--?"

"Borland," Genly corrects. “Touch the roof of your mouth.” 

"Bor _land_ ," repeats Estraven. Their Gethenian tongue rolls, uncertain, over the L. Satisfied with the attempt, or perhaps simply accepting that they'll never quite pin it down, they take their spot beside Genly and the chabe stove. For a moment, they sit in silence, undoing the tightly wound braids in their hair and shaking out the occasional half-melted bit of snow. Finally, Estraven huffs, a sardonic half of a laugh, and brushes their wet hands off on the hieb they’ve abandoned. "Both of those sounds beside each other, eh. All things Terran do persist in challenging me.”

Genly chuckles. “Does that include me?”

“Perhaps,” they answer wryly. “Genry, may I see your hands?”

“My hands? What of them?”

Estraven looks as if they’re weighing one of two responses. They settle on the most Terran-obvious route-- their eyes narrow skeptically, the heavy brows knitting together in a disapproving frown. “Our crossing is already in its second month; by now, it would be remiss of me to not know your limitations in the cold. You cannot sledge if your fingers drop off.”

“It isn’t so bad this time. No frostbite-- well, not very much--”

Estraven gives them a _look_ and Genly concedes defeat. He couldn't fight them if he wanted to. They're both dead tired; have been, for what seems like an eternity; it’s far easier to leave them be, though he wishes he wouldn’t feel like so much trouble some days. Genly manages a faint, apologetic smile, and Estraven cups his hands in their own, passing along their heat. The smile they mirror back is sheepish, but sincere.

“Let us return to Borland,” they continue. Even as Estraven slowly kneads warmth back into Genly’s hands, the numbness of the cold lingers: a prickling, dull pain far removed from-- and yet the close cousin of-- these last weeks' exhaustion. But it does help. Estraven’s dark otter-like eyes watch his face closely, searching for any grimace or wince of pain while they work. “You spoke of green, rolling plains, and of peaks and rivers… it sounds beautiful. Even with what pictures you showed of Terra, I can scarcely imagine such a place.” 

“Borland feels a lifetime away.” It _is_ a lifetime away, he nearly adds: the look on Estraven’s face makes him fear he’s mindspoken it. “Sometimes I wonder whether I can anymore, myself.” Genly breaks eye contact and glances toward the door of the tent. In the morning, the snow will be a wall of oppressive white all over again, and so too the next morning, and upon the one after that. It’s enough to blind a man-- to burn away all else in its blankness. 

Estraven frowns again, their thumb pressing against the back of Genly’s hand. “If you tried to, what might you picture first?” 

Genly closes his eyes, thinking. “Roses, I think. One of Borland’s older names was the ‘City of Roses’.”

“Those are a flower? What sort are they?”

“Yes. Red, most commonly.” Genly opens his eyes. “I could show you, but I doubt I could draw one properly.” 

“And these grow native to Borland.” 

“Yes. Well, yes and no. There is an old, historic garden full of them that has been kept up for generations. Unique hybrids, grown for different colors or shapes or scents and what have you. Many centuries ago, the very first of the roses were sent to Borland to prevent them from being destroyed during Terra’s earliest planet-wide war.” Genly pauses: the concept of war is one foreign to Estraven, but they seem to be following his story just fine, their head canted curiously to one side. “Eventually, there were enough of those saved flowers that a whole garden, and even an amphitheatre, could be built around them. For years, people the whole world over sent their most unique, beautiful roses to the garden. And so, dozens of conflicts and a handful of natural disasters later, rows and rows of thousands of those flowers remain, forever protected in Borland.”

Estraven’s hands rest in place, holding Genly’s, until they begin again, tentative. “Even one hundred years along.” 

Genly barely hesitates. “Even if the rest of Borland were somehow torn out and built anew within this last century, I would bet my life that those roses would still be there.” 

They say nothing in reply.

“You’re going to tell me not to bet my life.”

“No. It is yours, and I make my own share of wagers, too.” Genly’s expression falls: that singular Terran fragility of character. Estraven quietly laces their fingers with Genly’s own. “I believe you, for whatever it’s worth.”

Genly squeezes their hand. “I’ll take you to see the roses one day, Therem. In the spring, there’s nothing like it.” 

They laugh. “Your planet is a furnace. I don’t think so.” 

\---

Outside, the hail falls in a thin sheet, peppering the outside of Estraven’s quarters in Sassinoth. 

“They will not grant me a full pardon,” says Estraven. It is the third night since their summons from the king, but their physician has bought them a few more days-- citing the traitor’s health. Their head is turned towards the window: the hail taps away in time, as if counting down the minutes until Estraven is well enough to return to Ehrenrang. They turn back to Genly with a grim smile. “Even with your intervention. We are both well aware of my crimes, are we not?” 

“Therem,” he begins-- and stops. Genly searches their expression, but falls short, uncertain of what to say; he tries again-- “Therem.” He laces his fingers with their own wordlessly, the only sound around them that persistent drumming beat of hail.

“Genry, I remain an exile. All of mankind is before you. Whatever should become of me--” 

Genly shakes his head. He squeezes his eyes shut: he raises their joined hands, and gentler than Estraven has ever seen in him, touches his lips to the back of Estraven’s hand.

 _We will go to Borland together. I’d bet my life on it._

There’s something about the way Genly’s mindspeech rings in the back of their head that twists in Estraven’s gut. Like a knife; another peppering of bullets. A loyal little chabe stove, burning orange under a blanket of white. Estraven’s body, all the way through to their heart, aches. Their tears flow freely for only a moment before Genly’s arms, much too warm, but still so very comfortable, wrap around them. 

They reach for Genly’s face as the two pull apart. Estraven’s thumb strokes slow over his cheek, though he’s shed none of the tears; as Genly inches closer, eager to close the distance, Estraven finally finds it in them to mindspeak back.

_And why did they send those first roses again, Genry Ai?_

\---

Winter hasn’t broken quite yet, Genly apologizes; the garden’s at only a quarter of the splendor it _should_ have; perhaps they can appeal to the Ekumen, he reasons, for another couple of weeks of leave. Estraven, walking past him and shedding their coat, ( _this_ is what they call winter?), barely hears him.

In the distance, a white-tipped mountain cuts through the cloudy slate-blue of the sky. Beneath it, the flowers stretch, almost impossibly, as far as Estraven’s gaze can reach, and then even further. Every burst of color is organized by shade-- red and pink and purple roses, all in neat rows-- and yet none of them are really truly tamed. Flowers of all sorts steadily crawl their way into the incorrect sections; purple blooms cropping up in the middle of red, some funny accidental orange hybrid shooting up surrounded by a hedge of only white. It must be because of the off-season, Estraven guesses: they’ll stay like this until they can be pruned and sectioned away by the Terran gardeners. In a way, they prefer the chaos; the beauty of the roses left wild, unchecked.

“Therem?” Genly’s footsteps crunch behind them in the grass then come to an abrupt stop. For a moment, they think he’ll speak again, but he, too, is awed into silence. His hand brushes Estraven’s, and their fingers lace together; together, they breathe in and out, sharing that same long draught of the cool morning air.

The first wind of spring blows past them, rolling down those verdant slopes of Borland. The Earth is not yet warm, but around them, all of Terra is green.

**Author's Note:**

> The actual [International Rose Test Garden](http://www.placestoseeinoregon.com/the-international-rose-test-garden/) is in Washington Park in Portland, Oregon. It is super beautiful and one of my favorite places; check it out if you are ever in the area!!


End file.
